221b Drabbles
by Eligh
Summary: Ongoing drabble series in 221b format. Sherlock/John centric, slash. The rating will change if needed. Updates happen when the muse strikes.
1. Chapter 1

**_Title:_**_ 221b Drabbles_

**_Warnings:_**_ Slash pairing. Warnings will be on individual chapters as the need arises. _

**_Disclaimer: _**_Do not own. I'm not quite that awesome. _

**_A/N:_**_ This will be an ongoing project that I'll update as the mood strikes. Always will be in 221b format (221 words, last word starts with 'b'). Reviews are always appreciated! _

* * *

><p><strong>The Music<strong>

* * *

><p>There was nothing in the world but the music.<p>

No cases, no worries, no family, no detractors, no judgments. Just strings and bow and sandalwood and tempo and beauty mixed with sorrow and joy at the same time.

Sherlock spun gently in the center of the room, head bowed, fingers trailing lovingly along well-used strings. He almost never played like this. He was always too caught up in his head, in finding the next _thing_, the next _fix_, to remember the music.

But now…

He curved into himself, creating heavens with his fingers, miniscule supernovas of light and life, and he remembered and he was happy.

He stepped up on the coffee table, not breaking the flow of the melody, not looking when he heard an abandoned tea cup fall to the ground, and now he arched his back, playing past the ceiling, past the room, to the sky.

For him.

He sped up, switched from the darkness of the minor key to the pure joy of the major, explaining to the man (who was undoubtedly sitting in his bed upstairs, arms clasped round his raised knees, listening) what he didn't have the words to say.

And now John was in the doorway, and nerveless fingers fell from vibrating strings.

"You are my music, my everything, please. John."

"Yes," John breathed.


	2. Chapter 2

**_Warnings:_**_ Character death_

**_Disclaimer: _**_Do not own. I'm not quite that awesome._

**_A/N: _**_Uh, angst. Also, I reuploaded the first chapter, fixed a minor typo. Usually I would ignore it, but drabbles call for precision of language. _

* * *

><p>The world exploded, and suddenly where there once was air, there now was water. And as much as normal, everyday human needs were distasteful, even a sociopathic genius can't live without air.<p>

For once, Sherlock's body responded before his mind. He pushed against the floor of the pool (_how he had ended up there, he had no idea_) but by the time he breached the surface, his mind had caught up enough to remember firing the gun, to remember being pushed, to start to panic.

John, where is John?

The building was burning, fire and debris crashing in chaos around him as he levered himself to the edge, eyes scanning (_partially for Moriarity or snipers or something equally as terrible but mostly_) for John.

There, lying partially buried under smouldering ceiling tiles—a flash of blonde. Sherlock flailed wetly toward him, trying to ignore the red mixing with the yellow, failing miserably. Reaching him, digging away the tiles, unable to hold back a sob.

"John…"

The doctor groaned, and Sherlock gathered him in his arms.

"You saved me. You should've jumped too…"

A wet cough, and Sherlock again tried to ignore the blood that bubbled to John's lips.

"Y'alright, 'lock?"

"I'm fine, you idiot." He leaned down, their foreheads touching.

When he pulled away, John's open eyes were staring and blank.


	3. Chapter 3

**_Warnings:_**_ Language, implied sexing. _

**_Disclaimer: _**_Do not own. I'm not quite that awesome._

**_A/N: _**_Double post to counter the angst-fest that was the last chapter. _

* * *

><p>John rolled over, pinning Sherlock to the bed, grinning. "You. Are cheating, you cheater." He was given a highly affronted look.<p>

"I would never." Sherlock murmured earnestly, his face entirely innocent as he snaked his hands to John's side and tickled viciously.

John collapsed, giggling madly, and Sherlock took advantage of his newly exposed neck, licking and kissing and nibbling. John's giggles turned to quiet moans. Too quiet, really, for Sherlock's liking, so he arched into his doctor, and both men's eyes rolled back in pleasure.

"Bloody bollocksing hell, Sherlock…"

The detective pulled back, cataloguing every inch of naked doctor underneath him, and smiled widely when he met John's eyes, his pupils blown, the familiar blue so dark it was practically black.

"Watch your language, Doctor," Sherlock teased. "Some of us may be easily offended."

John rolled his eyes. "You swear more than I do."

"No shitting way. I abso – fucking – lutely do not bloody swear any fucking more than you do, damn it." Sherlock paused, thought for a moment, and then added with great relish: "Arse."

John giggled again, and Sherlock grinned. After a moment, they kissed lazily, neither bothering to progress further than the occasional swipe of the tongue—they had nowhere to be today, and there was plenty of time for sex later. Lie-ins truly were the best.


	4. Chapter 4

**_Warnings:_**_ Language, suicidal thoughts. _

**_Disclaimer: _**_Do not own. I'm not quite that awesome._

* * *

><p><strong>Before Sherlock<strong>

* * *

><p>He opened his eyes to darkness and sighed. No point in getting up, not really. Today would be just as terrible as yesterday—Mark and Tim and Leon and Nat would all still be dead, and he would still be alone in this bloody flat with a destroyed shoulder and a fucking limp.<p>

He sat up anyway, started his morning 'routine,' which was a bit… darker... than it had been before Afghanistan. He pulled his gun from the draw, methodically ran his fingers over the cool metal, checked that it was loaded. Placed the barrel to his chin, considered, slid it up to his temple.

Maybe today he could do it.

Not like he had anything to live for anyway. Friends dead, parents dead, sister—as good as dead, really.

His phone chirped.

_Reminder: Appt 10am Elle._

He ground his teeth. He should talk to his shrink, that was what she was here for, a requirement for invalided soldiers. He wondered what she'd do if he told her he held a loaded gun to his head every morning. And night. And sometimes in the afternoon.

Set him up with a suicide watch, that's what she'd do.

He sighed, dropped the gun to his lap, lay back down. Hissed when he put too much pressure on his shoulder. He couldn't be bothered.


	5. Chapter 5

**_Warnings:_**_ Language, drug use._

**_Disclaimer: _**_Do not own._

* * *

><p><strong>Before John<strong>

* * *

><p>He lolled his head back onto the filthy futon and grinned toward the ceiling. Concentrating for a moment, he pulled the rubber strap from his arm and flexed his hand several times, encouraging circulation in his limb to restart.<p>

He felt the tingle start in his fingertips, felt it move toward his head. Felt his heart speed up, his breath quicken, broke out in a light sweat. He moaned, vibrating on the couch, and grinned wider.

He knew this session was going too far—he was strung out, hadn't eaten in days. He couldn't exactly remember when, but he knew he'd kicked Vincent out, called him a slut, accused him of stealing his stash. Vincent had cried. He didn't care.

He noticed when Mycroft came in, accompanied by a silver-haired cop. He also didn't care about this. He _did_ care, however, when his brother picked up the needle, the vials, handed them to the officer.

"Myc'ft, the hell're you doing?"

His brother's face looked pained, but it was an act, he knew this. Mycroft didn't care about him.

"You're harming yourself. I can no longer watch you self-destruct. I am taking you to a facility."

He tried to stand to get his drugs, couldn't support himself long enough, fell over.

"Fuck you! You have no right!" he spat at his brother.


	6. Chapter 6

**_Disclaimer:_**_ If you recognize it, I don't own it. _

**_A/N: _**_My daughter has been insisting on Green Eggs and Ham as her bedtime story for the past two weeks. Therefore, I give you this exercise in ridiculousness. _

* * *

><p><strong>Doctor Seuss<strong>

* * *

><p>John was following Sherlock around the flat, and Sherlock was doing his best to ignore him.<p>

"Would you eat them… on a train? Would you eat them in the rain?"

" Stop." Sherlock's hand tightened, accidentally snapped a pipette.

"Would you try them here or there?" John continued.

"John, I swear…" Sherlock tried his best grimace and it was effortlessly ignored.

"Would you try them anywhere?"

"Stop. Rhyming. At me."

"I'll stop when you eat something. Also... would you eat them on a boat?"

"Arrrggh!" Sherlock stalked to their room, slammed the door and locked it.

John leaned against it, raised his voice. "Would you eat them with a goat?"

"No!"

"Try them, try them! You will see!"

"Leave me alone..."

"Will you try green eggs and ham!"

Resigned shuffling from the other side of the door. John watched the handle expectantly, and after a moment, Sherlock emerged, glaring daggers.

"You really won't stop, will you?"

"Unlikely." John grinned at him. "Not when it produces such an excellent reaction."

After another glare, Sherlock slumped down at the table. With a flourish, John produced a plate with a slice of ham and two fried eggs. Sherlock stared. The eggs were tinted green.

"You _actually_ made green eggs and ham? Are you really that bored?"

John grinned at him again. "Eat your breakfast."


	7. Chapter 7

**_Disclaimer: _**_The lovely Sherlock Holmes and John Watson do not belong to me. Alas. _

* * *

><p>John stumbles into the flat, dropping his briefcase on the kitchen table (empty of chemistry equipment now, empty for the last three years) and then stands for a moment, blinking in confusion. He thought—but no.<p>

He _thought_ he caught a whiff of that smell that signified _Sherlock_—something sharp and vaguely chemical, mixed with the muskiness of the London drizzle and the faint acrid leavings of cigarette smoke—but Sherlock is dead and buried and never coming back.

So he stands, staring unseeing at the wall, lost in his miserable memories, and that is when the door to the (what was once _his_, and then _theirs_, and now _John's_) bedroom opens and existence stops.

"John."

John gapes—there is no other descriptive for his shocked, open mouth—staring at familiar dark curly hair, too-thin (much too thin) limbs, forbidding, overbearing (and depressingly shabby and well-used) black jacket, and then falls to his knees.

"John."

There is a thump, and then bony legs slide into John's line of sight, and pale fingers wrap around his arm and card through his hair and hot breath ghosts along his neck and then unbearably, unbelievably, chapped lips press to his forehead.

"John."

This was not real, couldn't be real, Sherlock could _not_ be here, impossible.

"I'm here, I'm back. For you, John, I'm back."


	8. Chapter 8

_**Disclaimer:** Not mine. (Sigh)_

* * *

><p><em><em>**London Calling**

* * *

><p>London invariably buzzed with life, and this had always been something Sherlock revelled in. There was always <em>something<em> happening—burglaries, cheating spouses, drug deals, murders, and when he was especially lucky—serial killers.

He whirled through the city, racing from one crime scene to the next, and while his work was enjoyable, rewarding, what he _needed_ to keep his demons at bay... there was always _something_ missing.

Until John.

And then nothing was missing, _nothing_, and Sherlock dragged his doctor through the city, John with an amiable smile gracing his face, providing the stabilizing influence Sherlock never realized he needed.

Together they danced in London's darkness.

Shocked, Sherlock realized that London's relentless motion (something he'd never thought he would find annoying) became intrusive when he was with John. Things, people, everything moved around them, but when they were together, the only thing that _should_ exist was _them_.

He took the plunge, and John apparently had felt _it_ too (he should have deduced it, but John was just so damn _intoxicating) _and so they progressed to the inevitable.

Outside Baker Street, London whirred with life, ignorant of the passions of two men that so frequently raced through its streets. London relentlessly thrived.

Inside Baker Street, John and Sherlock curled around each other, sweaty and blissful, and sank into their perfectly still bubble.


	9. Chapter 9

_**Disclaimer: **Not mine, no offence, blah blah blah..._

_**A/N:** Quick note to say thanks to everyone who's reviewed, favourited, or alerted this series. It makes me feel all warm and fuzzy inside. _

* * *

><p>Sherlock is many things—none of them simple. John muses on this one day while watching Sherlock whirl through their flat, muttering what sounded like Latin to himself.<p>

_Starting on a surface level_, John thinks, moving further out of the path of destruction as Sherlock tosses a book over his shoulder, _he is beautiful, of course. But not the stereotypical poster boy type of beauty._ _More like... terribly beautiful. _

John had always been a fan of oxymorons, liked how the contradicting ideas produced specific descriptors, and these two adjectives fit Sherlock well.

Another descriptive that fit his flatmate (boyfriend?) well—idiotically brilliant. _It's why he needs me,_ John thought. _Needs someone to remind him he's human. _And as if Sherlock were reading his thoughts, the man piped up—

"We may need to steal Mr. Jones' body. The family doesn't want an autopsy."

John rolled his eyes. _Of course Sherlock wouldn't realize why stealing their client's brother's body was inappropriate. _

"You _could_ just convince Lestrade that an autopsy's necessary. Gives you a chance to use your best manipulative skills." And then his eyes widened when Sherlock rounded on him with a purely predatory gaze—the look he always got when John said something particularly pleasing.

One last oxymoron flitted through—_violently affectionate_, he thought, as Sherlock kissed him hard enough to bruise.


	10. Chapter 10

_**Disclaimer: **__Not mine, no offense, blah blah…_

* * *

><p><em>I just found me a bottle of blues… some strange comfort for a soul to soothe. Ain't it hard, ain't it hard… to want somebody who doesn't want you… <em>

_-Beck_

* * *

><p>He watched him move about the flat, fiddling with the stacks of papers, toying with the television, picking up the skull, contemplating it, putting it down again. He watched as he peered out the window, the setting sun highlighting the differing shades in his hair, making him more beautiful than he could have possibly imagined.<p>

He tried to make it look like he wasn't watching, but his flatmate was so caught up in his own thoughts that it really didn't matter. He very much doubted he'd be noticed even if he blatantly stared, mouth hanging wide open, making approving noises in the back of his throat.

It was strange to think that someone was so off-limits. He had, after all, never had trouble with finding partners, and the irony—the sheer, evil irony of every bloody aspect of it—is that now there was someone he actually _wanted_, someone that _meant something (__**everything**__)_... and he was entirely untouchable.

He'd never want him—never reciprocate what he felt. Hell, he'd probably be offended if the topic was even broached.

So instead he simply tried to be content with watching, pushing ever deeper down the desperate hope of **Someday**. He tried not to feel like (if he couldn't touch that man so obliviously _breathing_ and _living_ and unbearably _there_) he just might burst.

* * *

><p><em><strong>AN: **__I was deliberately vague for the POV of this story. Make it fit either Sherlock or John based on your own personal preference. :)_


	11. Chapter 11

_**A/N: **I really like Lestrade's character in this show. A serious improvement from how he was depicted in ACD's stories. I like that this go-round he's a good-natured, useful guy that gets the job done__. Good times. Also, these characters continue to not not belong to me. _

* * *

><p>Let's just get one thing out of the way—Gregory Lestrade is not an idiot. Yes, when compared to the man currently (<em>Jesus, is he <em>_**licking**__ the victim's jacket?)_ inspecting the latest body in string of what appear to be serial beheadings, he's a bit dull, but who isn't?

The point here is that Lestrade is far from brainless. He has a 137 IQ for christsake, and is Detective Inspector for Scotland bloody Yard's homicide division. He makes a living solving puzzles (and solves more of them alone than Sherlock would like you to think). So _he has noticed_ that Holmes and Watson are hiding something.

Damn him all if he knew what, though.

It was their little furtive I-know-something-you-don't-know looks that tipped him off. Perhaps they've been working on the Dixon cold case? Sherlock _would_ do that—solve Greg's pet case out of spite. But that's not it—there would have been a grand show.

Hm. Sherlock's limping today. Probably another late-night fight in some alley. John doesn't seem to be badly off, though, and he's usually the one who takes the brunt of the physical altercations.

But is that—

It is. John has a _hickey_ on his neck.

Oh.

Well that's... good. For them.

So now if you will excuse him, Greg needs to go find some brain bleach.


	12. Chapter 12

_**A/N:** Still not mine. On an awesome, amazing and terrific side note-FIVE DAYS UNTIL SERIES 2!_

* * *

><p>John's head slipped off his hand and landed with a <em>thunk<em> on the kitchen table. Sherlock watched this happen, slightly impressed that John had not jerked awake after the sudden change in position. He glanced at the clock—well, they'd been awake for fifty hours, so he supposed it made sense.

John shifted slightly in his sleep into a more comfortable spot on the hard wood, and Sherlock sat back, research into Mr. Ogden's murder momentarily forgotten. He studied John's sleeping face. The lines that so frequently creased his eyes and forehead were smoothed out, making him look younger and more innocent.

_Deceptive innocence,_ Sherlock thought. He reached out a hand, ghosted it over John's head. An unbidden image floated into his mind—burying his fingers in that dirty blonde hair, pulling John's head back, baring his throat, biting and licking at his neck, his lips...

Sherlock let out a quiet gasp and retracted his hand. _Inappropriate. _

He traced John's silhouette with his eyes. John was _off-limits_. Sherlock could look, but not touch. He shifted in his chair, (_wanting, not touching_) and accidentally knocked his knee into the underside of the table.

John stirred, yawned. He sat up slowly, rubbed his face.

"Sorry, did I fall asleep?" he asked, his eyes blurry.

Sherlock simply grunted and retreated back into his books.


	13. Chapter 13

_**A/N:**__ Spoilers for S2x3. _

_Side note: I am so g**damn happy Moffat and Gatiss didn't actually kill Sherlock I just about had a heart attack at the end of the episode. Now—bring on series three._

* * *

><p>He hid in the shadow of the tree and watched.<p>

"Stop it," John told his headstone, and Sherlock almost called out, almost ran to John, almost pulled him into a hug (John had introduced him to hugs a few months ago and they were simultaneously suffocating and soothing—an odd juxtaposition).

But he didn't. It wasn't safe—if Moriarity's minions realized he had faked the jump... well.

Putting John, Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade in danger (_mostly John_, he thought ruefully, but the other two were important as well) was too much.

So Sherlock watched as John talked to his grave and wondered why John was so damn noble and so damn unwilling to believe he was a fake and so damn _loyal_ and how he had ever deserved a friend that was so bloody _wonderful_.

_You could bring him with you_, his mind whispered. _He would come without a moment's hesitation._

But then John would be In Danger, and that was... well, that was entirely unacceptable.

_He's a soldier, he could help_, his mind pointed out, and Sherlock shook his head minutely, cutting the thought off midway.

John was simply too important, and as terribly (heart wrenchingly?) miserable as Sherlock was, he could not put John in that position.

John touched his headstone with shaking fingers, and pained, Sherlock furrowed his brow.


End file.
